“But, Miss Brewster, I have no money. I arrived here last week from Rio Janeiro. My father has disinherited me, as I have told you. My little private fortune, my mother’s gift, which I could have doubled in a year’s time by my investments, was all given to save my friend. Madame!” he cried, “where is your sense of justice—simple justice—if you refuse me the paltry sum which saved the reputation and wealth of the man whose heiress you now are? You have his own confession here before you, signed with his name. The evidence is unimpeachable. If I bring it into court, it may cost you half your millions. Madame, the Urania sails to-morrow, I must go. I must have money, the money you owe me. If you refuse”— I rose to bring this extraordinary interview to an immediate close. I was shaking from head to foot and thankful beyond measure that Hélène, who had doubtless heard the whole conversation, understood too little English to realize its import. I was convinced that I had to deal with a very shrewd, clever villain, who had worked up his facts most adroitly, and was trying a desperate confidence game. But he was not to be gotten rid of so easily. Suddenly falling upon one knee, he grasped my hand as I stood before him and poured out a torrent of words, of which I remember nothing, for I was too indignant and astounded even to think of calling upon Hélène. We must have looked for all the world like the tragic pictures in the “Police Gazette,” which my naughty youngsters used to display behind my back at the Mission School. Suddenly I came to my senses. I don’t suppose the whole scene lasted half a minute at most. Tearing my hand away, I was rushing for Hélène,—who, as I learned afterward, was sound asleep, with the door blown to,—when, as a last bit of desperation, what did this man do, but snatch a dainty little pistol from his hip pocket, and before I could scream or even gasp an articulate word he aimed it at his temples and seemed about to fire. I can hardly tell what I did then. I believe I screamed, and I must have rushed upon the madman, for the next instant I found myself with the pistol in my hand trying to fire it up the chimney, while the Señor lay prostrate apparently in a swoon. But the pistol would not fire; evidently it was not loaded. I dropped it into the smouldering ashes, and staggered into the next room, where my stupid maid lay soundly sleeping on the sofa. Faint and trembling I dropped into the nearest chair. I could not have walked six inches further, and was too weak to attempt to arouse Hélène. On the whole, I was glad not to do so, for she would have been too frightened to be of the least use. Moreover, she would have raised the neighborhood with her shrieks, while I should have been ready to die with mortification and disgust.